


a quiet hunger

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: (probably), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Childhood Trauma, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purring, Racism, Therapy, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Kisses, Xenophobia, orthorexia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27463123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Kirk is disturbed by the reemergence of Kodos. But when McCoy checks the replicator logs it looks like Spock is the one skipping meals.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 28
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am writing *another* Spock-with-an-eating-disorder fic. I wrote the last one when I was... eighteen? Nineteen?  
> I (hope) my writing has improved, so I'd like to give it another go - this time with a slightly different perspective. Most of the fic is outlined, at least, but I can't promise fast updates.

**I.**

Ironically, he figures it out because he's worried about Jim.

In the aftermath of Anton Karidan's reveal, McCoy observes the captain carefully for signs of stress. That's his duty as both the ship's CMO and Kirk's friend. There are few outward signs of stress, and nothing unduly alarming – maybe he shuts himself in his quarters a little more than usual, splurges on some chocolate cake and pudding in the officers mess. Excusable, under the circumstances. His working efficiency doesn't drop.

But McCoy keeps watching anyway. Drawing up traumatic events can have unexpected effects, not all of which may be immediate. And one of the things he monitors closely is the captain's caloric intake.

It's the sort of information McCoy _can_ access, as the ship's primary physician, but which he rarely thinks about. Jim's numbers remain fine – a little high, maybe, but he shows no signs of disordered eating. So at least his famine-related stress isn't manifesting in that form.

But Kevin Riley is a different story.

Lieutenant Riley is a relatively recent addition to the ship, but it's no excuse. Because when McCoy looks over the meal-logs – automatically entered by the ship's replicators – he's horrified to discover a cycling pattern of binge-eating and fasting. Technically the calorie-count tends to even out, so the simple computer hasn't raised any alarms. Two weeks binging, two weeks eating almost nothing – probably as self-inflicted punishment – and then a nearly normal month before the cycle begins again, or worse.

He calls down Riley. And the man denies him, lies, and finally says “I've always been like this, Sir.”

He was just a boy on Tarsus. Maybe this is his version of normal.

McCoy doesn't raise the matter with Jim; mental-health issues aren't the sort of thing he reports to the captain unless there's a direct threat involved or a clear need for workplace changes, and Riley has lived this long. Thankfully it seems like a fairly minor case. He signs the lieutenant up for counseling, loads him down with nutrition-supplements and pamphlets and diet plans, and afterward sits at his desk with a bottle of god-awful synthale, thinking.

It's been going on for years, is the thing. Riley must have passed scrutiny at the Academy. At previous postings. And McCoy signed Riley aboard, looked at his psych profiles, his physical, _talked_ to the man – but he didn't notice.

“Christine!” he hollers. Nurse Chapel slinks in with a sigh, crossing her arms reproachfully when she notices the drink. Whatever; he's technically off-duty now. She can disapprove on her own time. “Compile a list. Whole crew, starting with everyone who has a physical coming up. I need to check their records.”

Christine frowns. “What do you want us to look for?”

McCoy tips his head back and squints at the ceiling. “I'll know it when I see it,” he decides. He ignores her faint sigh. “ - _All_ the records, Christine. Let's get to it.”

* * *

McCoy keeps the project unofficial. It's a burdensome task, looking through the replicator logs – mostly because the records span _years_ in most cases. Decades, in some. He flags any suspicious behavior – a three-week period a gal down in Engineering stopped eating after a colleague was burnt to death in an explosion right next to her. Three multiple-month periods, years apart, when a lieutenant in Communications ate less than a thousand calories a day for no reason he can discern.

Most of it is probably fairly routine stuff. Starfleet is a high-stress environment, and it's not too odd for people to get so caught up in their work they skip a few meals. Extreme stressors might affect a person's appetite for awhile, and the young officer who dramatically cuts down on calories after being told they could lose a few pounds is probably just ignorant about healthy dieting habits, not exhibiting signs of a neuroses.

But sometimes it's hard to tell. He makes notes to talk with a few crewmen during their physicals, but doesn't find anything major over the first few days. He finds himself eyeing people a bit oddly when he takes lunch though. It's hard to turn off the part of his brain scrutinizing people for bad habits – like noticing the signs of a flu, or exhaustion. Automatic.

He eats lunch with Kirk whenever he can, just in case the captain is less resilient than he seems. “Are you worried about some sort of infection?” Jim asks during one such meeting. McCoy finds himself automatically glancing at his friend's tray. Turkey sandwich, fried vegetables, fruit juice. Disgusting amounts of mayo, but perfectly fine. On Jim's other side Spock picks at a goopy, clearly alien collection of vegetables without much interest. McCoy doesn't blame him; it looks like someone sneezed all over the plate.

“Whaddya mean?” he answers the question.

“Usually you do the annual physicals around the same time – but you've called down half the crew in the past few weeks. It's, what, three months early?”

“The first physicals would typically occur two point eight months from now,” Spock corrects, pushing aside his unappetizing portion. “I have not noticed any increase in sick days among the duty-roster.”

“Yeah, because Starfleet officers are so great about taking time off,” McCoy scoffs. Jim frowns, so he heads off the inevitable question. “But no, everything's fine. I just wanted to get things done early, so sue me.”

Jim squints, clearly not buying it. “An illogical waste of resources,” is Spock's contribution.

 _“I'm_ the CMO here, I'll decide what's 'logical' for my department. And you can kindly keep out of it.”

Spock raises an eyebrow and does not bother replying. Jim leans forward. “Bones, if you've noticed something we should know about - “

Ugh. He's activated the captain's mother-hen instincts. “If I find something I'll let you know, Jim. Swear it on the grave.”

“Who's grave?” Spock wants to know.

“Yours.”

Spock squints at McCoy, too, like he's doubting the validity of that promise.

* * *

The _Enterprise_ has a lot of assignments where Medical is left with little to do. Aside from tending the various cuts, bruises, and stupidity-related injuries from the crew, his department spends a great deal of their time conducting research. They tend to collaborate closely with Spock's department, much to McCoy's disgust; keeping track of the botany and microbiology projects can often spur new lines of medical research, so it's good to stay informed.

But the _Enterprise's_ current duty is entirely unrelated to anything concerning medicine. They've been assigned to orbit and study an unusual planetary satellite just recently discovered by astrocartographers. Previous ships passing through the area never reported it, so either it recently appeared, was somehow hidden from sensors, or their preliminary data is wrong.

An interesting case for Spock's star-charting team, and the poor bastards who get to study the satellite's oddly-strong magnetic fields. But since there's no chance of injuries – or any other health concerns – the Medical department sequester themselves with their respective projects. McCoy included.

He arrives on the bridge halfway through Alpha Shift after three ignored comm calls and a visit to Spock's quarters. Exiting the turbolift, he announces, “Medical emergency, Captain – I'm dying of boredom.”

The guard stationed outside the lift snorts; Kirk doesn't even turning around, scribbling his signature into a padd before handing it to Rand. “Sounds serious,” he calls back absently. “Maybe you should spend some time with Spock's team in Lab Seven, Bones. I hear they're having fun.”

Chekov makes a disgusted sound from his station. _Ha._ “Think I'll pass,” McCoy says. “Have you decided if we'll be taking leave on Station eighteen or Andor after this?”

“Worrying about crew morale?”

“Oh, sure,” says McCoy. “That, and I've heard Space-Station Eighteen has some fabulous new hologram technology. Also their mess makes this fantastic dessert down that could trick you into thinking it's a sort of chocolate cheesecake - “

“Ah,” says Kirk. “A very urgent reason to rush this mission, then.”

“Exactly.”

“An illogical habit of humans,” Spock says over his shoulder, “To eat for pleasure rather than need.”

Just who he wanted to speak with. “I honestly wonder how Vulcan has survived this long,” McCoy says. “Spock, tell me this - if you're not going to _enjoy_ life, what's the point?”

“Life can be satisfying without being indulgent.”

“And my appetite can be 'satisfied' with beans and turnips,” McCoy retorts. “But set me up with a good peach cobbler topped with homemade icecream and I'll die a happy man.”

“Given the likely repercussions to your cholesterol, I imagine you would.”

God, he hates it when Spock tries to play doctor. But Jim intervenes because they can really get started. _“Bones._ Did you have a reason to come up here, or - ?”

“I'm here for Spock, unfortunately. Stealing him for a physical.”

“In the middle of shift?”

“I told him about the appointment two weeks ago; it ain't my fault he forgot.”

Spock leans back in his seat. He shows no intention of leaving. “I did not 'forget,' Dr. McCoy. However, I find it quite illogical that you have decided to move up the annual physicals without due cause - “

“I don't need to defend my choices to you!”

“You do, in fact, if you are determined to disrupt the Enterprise's assigned duty-roster.”

 _“You create the duty roster._ Don't act like you couldn't make the time, you green-blooded - “

“Enough,” Jim interrupts. The stern tone doesn't really work against his twitching lips. “Colorful insults aside, Mr. Spock, he has a point. But this _is_ a bad time, Bones. We've found out this satellite looks artificial, and we need Spock for the risk analysis.”

“...Fine.” McCoy whirls on Spock. The Vulcan somehow radiates smugness without shifting an inch of his expression. “But if you don't report straight after shift, I'll drag you down by your pointy ears and give you a real reason to avoid Sickbay.”

“I will endeavor to save you the effort,” says Spock, unfazed. “But I would first recommend assessing your own health, Doctor. You _are_ in somewhat advanced age for a human, and the flush to your skin is somewhat concerning. I would be unsurprised if you experienced heart difficulties in the attempt.”

“Did you just call me old?”

 _“Bones,_ ” says Kirk. McCoy throws up his hands and storms off the bridge.

He's going to stick his gloves in _ice_ before Spock's physical. That's what the man gets for being difficult.

* * *

Here's something they never emphasize in medical school: most of your job is not critical. Most of a doctor's time, in fact, will be spent curing sniffles, forcing people to answer uncomfortable questions about their privates, and trying very hard to act like your patients are not idiots destined to creatively ravage their fragile bodies in ways that will make you marvel at the fact that humanity has managed to survive this long.

Case in point: engineers.

“How did you even do this to yourself?” McCoy demands.

In his years as a medical fellow Leonard McCoy heard a lot of advice about keeping a _good bedside manner_ to _encourage people to share freely._ Bullshit. Some people need to be dragged kicking and screaming into good sense. Or beaten over the head with it.

Ensign Jones squirms. Lieutenant Ramirez, a chipper girl infuriatingly unfazed by the 18-centimeter burn sprawling across her arm, just shrugs as McCoy peels away her sleeve. “We were just running routine checks on the engine - it's been having a few fluctuations we can't explain. We were assigned to investigate the cooling system, but the internal sensors are down for maintenance, so we took manual scans...”

“She tripped and fell against some hot pipes,” Ensign Jones offers.

“Yeah, and then I dropped the scanner,” Ramirez offers. “So I had to crawl in after it - “

“It was like a bad game of Operation,” Jones sighs.

McCoy counts to ten. Well, to five.

Okay, he _considers_ counting, but that's a waste of time. Instead he jabs Ramirez with a painkiller.

The hypo doesn't even make her flinch.

“This is your third injury this month,” he grits. Ramirez shrugs. Ugh. “I'm recommending you for a course on workplace safety.”

She just says, “Yeah, that's fair. Hey doc, do you still have that experimental burn cream I used last month? My leg smelt like honey and roses for _weeks_.”

* * *

McCoy sends away Ramirez after threatening to bring down Scotty and have her restricted to transporter-duty. The only thing that pauses him is the thought of this trainwreck of a woman actually operating the transporters – those things have enough issues.

Afterward Nurse Chapel reminds him to please keep his voice down, because _some_ of them aren't old enough to have hearing loss yet and would like to keep it that way. She's getting a bit mouthy these days.

He overviews two more regular check-ups, and then his third appointment bails, which is an excellent excuse to cut away to his office for a break. As he sits at his desk McCoy glances at the computer. It's still open to his partially-finished checklist of the crew. Right – the nutrition checks. Because he doesn't have enough work, so he had to make up a new and entirely unofficial project.

Since he left off halfway through the ship's roster McCoy figures he might as well throw Spock's file into the list while that physical is still fresh in his mind. Maybe the rest of the day's files, too, if this blasted ship can go more than twenty minutes without an emergency. He presses a few keys and the computer starts generating a long list of Spock's meals and eating-schedule as he pulls out the results.

McCoy naturally remembers most of the exam. Nothing wrong with those Vulcan vitals, he recalls at a glance. Frighteningly low blood pressure as usual. Slight signs of anemia – also not strange. He'll have to pester Spock to take his vitamins. Heart-rate fine, for Spock's bizarre definition of 'fine,' and here's what he's looking for - body weight on the lower side of healthy for an average human male. So that's fine -

Oh. Wait. What?

McCoy squints. He notes the numbers again, turning them over in his head. Frowning, he pulls up a page from the Federation Medical Database to confirm.

A page immediately jumps out at him. Vulcan muscle-mass is much denser than that of most humanoids – and any muscle is heavy. So the average Vulcan male of Spock's height should be.... roughly twice his current weight?

That can't be right.

McCoy puzzles over the numbers awhile, sandwich forgotten. _Some_ discrepancy would be expected. Spock isn't living on Vulcan, obviously – continued habitation in a lower-gravity environment can deplete muscles. But Spock also has a specific gym regimen meant to combat those effects, and a whole host of stabilizers and other medications. Plus his quarters are kept in higher gravity, alleviating the worst repercussions.

Have the numbers always looked like this? He would have noticed, surely. Maybe he's just forgetting some obvious fact about Spock's biology.

His human heritage could predictably cause _some_ difference... but Spock was made in a lab, and the Vulcan geneticists who hand-picked his genes carefully allowed Vulcan traits to dominate. McCoy's had first-hand experience with Spock's Vulcan strength _._ So he should have Vulcan muscle-mass, too. Or at least nearly-Vulcan. That's simple logic.

And yet the numbers on the page remain stubbornly defiant. He scrolls through records of past physicals. Spock's weight never differs by more than a pound or two, except in times of high stress. Like a few months back – it looks like he lost nearly a kilo and never recovered it. And eleven weeks before _that,_ his average weight dropped by about half a kilo...

A sinking feeling in his gut, McCoy scrolls all the way back to Spock's exams at the start of Captain Pike's mission. Spock would have been 22 when he signed aboard; and his weight...

McCoy drops his head in his hands and swears.

* * *

**II.**

* * *

When Spock was 11, he went into the desert and disappeared for eight weeks.

He was officially declared 'missing' after nine days. At that age it was not unusual for Spock to venture alone into the unoccupied mountains around ShiKahr, against all warnings from his father. What Sarek never understood – what he still fails to understand – is that the entire capital was watching him, always. A son of the clan of Surak, half-human, already lauded as a genius and a prodigy even as conservatives lambasted him in desperate attempts to forestall his house from keeping power in the future. Wherever Spock went, he was known - and he was human.

But the mountains did not know him. And Vulcan's burning sun did not shine brighter or more fiercely because his eyes were too round and he was missing a few bones in his spine. Climbing through the mountains was easy and freeing – knowing that he could survive, that he could face the wilds that regularly killed curious adults, even moreso.

But when Spock was 11 something happened that he never discussed with his parents.

Spock's body, while a marvel of genetic engineering, is not able to exhibit all advantages of either human or Vulcan physiology. He's supposedly a blend of both – though the geneticists who created him did, of course, highly emphasize Vulcan characteristics. Still, his human heritage sometimes expresses itself in inconvenient ways.

As a child this affected his diet, because Spock requires a Vulcan-normal quantity of calories without the efficiency of a Vulcan digestive system. His mother often complained that humans weren't 'meant' for a vegetarian diet – and Spock seems to be proof of this. Aside from a regiment of supplements and vitamins, he has to consume truly tiresome amounts to keep up his weight. It's always made eating a chore, and even as a toddler he grew familiar with painful cramps from overstuffing his wrong-fitting body. His stomach simply couldn't handle the amount of vegetables he needed for fuel.

During his school's midday break an older student once approached him to question this when Spock was 11. After hearing Spock's explanation of his issues, the student told him, “The amount of food you consume it wasteful.”

Spock replied, “It is not wasteful; it is required for survival.”

The student insisted, “Your existence is unnecessary. Everything you do drains your community without benefit. I have heard the instructors discuss expensive ways to accommodate your body in physical education courses. Your medical needs alone must demand constant attention. Your existence is therefore illogical.”

Ah. Encounters like this increased briefly past the age of 7, then decreased after the age of 10, presumably as children found more interesting pursuits and became accustomed to Spock's presence. His classmates were mostly tolerant, but – it was not the first time he has heard such views. “Your opinion is noted,” said Spock, going back to his lunch with all the haughty dignity he'd once seen Sarek turn toward a fuming Deltan dignitary.

Something clattered to the ground next to him. Spock looked down and saw it: a small, sharp knife.

“It would be more logical to stop wasting resources,” the older boy told him. And then the boy left, and Spock sat there, staring at that knife.

He thought about it, of course.

He wondered, then and after, what the boy would have done if Spock had picked up the knife and slit his throat right at the table. Would he have regretted those words? Such people rarely think through their actions. Or maybe it would have just been proof, all along, that Spock was never meant to survive.

He went away to the desert the next night.

* * *

After his physical, Spock heads to the gym.

Doctors, although they often prod Spock about his weight or various nutritional concerns, never seem worried about his reflexes or physical abilities. But the physical tests are always exhaustive, however skilled Spock has become at redistributing oxygen into his muscles, forcing his heart to beat faster, stopping lactic acids from building during exertion. Vulcan mental discipline affords great control of the body, even down to the cellular level. Without it Spock would have much more difficulty with physical tasks.

He doesn't remember needing to focus so much when he was younger. Sometimes he privately thinks that his childhood physicians were wrong, that perhaps he's going to age at a human-normal rate after all; old age could explain his increasing difficulties. Thirty-eight seems fairly old for a human, doesn't it? McCoy's always calls himself old, after all, and Spock's just slightly younger. But it's sometimes hard to tell.

Regardless, the poor results of his physical trouble him. Spock sets himself to running on one of the gym's treadmills, beginning at a rate of roughly 34 kilometers per hour. On the other side of the gym he hears someone swearing.

Spock usually prefers to end his exercises before he can sweat too much. Not that humans find it strange to see him sweat – but _Spock_ knows that a Vulcan should not need to excrete water through their pores. Should not be _able_ to do this. It's undignified, and even if his crewmates are too ignorant to mind, he's still uncomfortable sweating in public areas.

But today, he keeps running. The difficulty of his run rises slowly as time passes and people filter in and out. Thirty-five, thirty-seven, forty kilometers per hour. The artificial track slopes, forcing him to run at new angles. By the end he's sprinting up an incline - breathing rapidly, but not gasping. Spock is able to regulate his breathing just as he regulates anything else.

Usually. Then his heart starts pounding off-beat, so Spock obligingly slows the settings to a light jog. Heart palpitations have been common since childhood, and doctors have always told him they aren't dangerous – but the sensation remains a bit unsettling despite his best efforts. It's a good time to stop.

He takes a sonic shower back in his quarters, but his heart keeps skipping a bit and the rough sonics don't help. He finally ends up lying flat on the bedroom floor, breathing slow and even, using basic techniques to calm his body.

Unfortunate. He'll have to try raising his stamina again later.

* * *

Sarek once accused his son of being _needlessly rebellious._

It baffled Spock at the time. He's never wanted anything but conformity. It is not his fault that the rest of his world rejected the things in him that were intrinsic. He could be best in the class, he could excel in the arts, he could practice diplomacy and learn new languages and invent new ideas that delighted the scientific community – but he could never change what he is.

When he fled to the desert at the age of 11, it was not an act of rebellion. It was one of many attempts to prove himself Vulcan. The Forge was regarded with wary respect by most of his people. It was a merciless and untamed place; and it was illogical, everyone knew, to venture there if you were not willing to risk your life.

The desert was a refuge only in the sense that it was alone. Spock learned mastery there: mastery of himself, of the things he could control, even if in every place outside that desert he could not seem to change the way he was perceived.

He learned how to move silently, how to hide himself away from predators, how to escape their grasp if he was detected. He foraged from the wild and dug up raw desert plants for his food, and sometimes he hungered. Often, he hungered. It did not matter. Pain was a thing of the body, and the body could be controlled. Hunger could be controlled. He was not a beast – despite what some of Spock's classmates liked to imply – and he was Vulcan. Vulcans can go months without food, if necessary, and so Spock did not worry if he missed out on meals for a day or a week. It was not relevant.

When he returned, at peace for himself for the first time in years, Amanda fussed over his thinness because she was illogical. Sarek was often quiet, and when he did speak, he disapproved. He said that Spock's disappearance was immature, rash. He accused him of emotionalism and illogic.

But even that did not matter for once. Because Sarek had not been there during those weeks in the desert. And Spock knew, as his father did not, that he did not lack anything.

It would have been illogical to judge his father for ignorance.

* * *

Spock joins Kirk for dinner.

The revelation of Anton Karidian's identity – and, more relevantly for Spock, Kirk's traumatic past on Tarsus – have explained several nuances of the captain's behavior that he never before considered. Spock usually ignores minor idiosyncrasies among his human crewmates – emotionalism can lead people to erratic behavior, so in his opinion, human oddness is usually just... normal for them.

An interesting contradiction.

But knowing about Kirk's past – that changes things. He's noticed before, for example, that Captain Kirk has a marked tendency to indulge in 'comfort foods.' It never worried him before, but...

Spock isn't sure whether the ship's CMO has noticed these behaviors. He makes a mental note to pull aside the doctor at some point. Spock will observe the captain himself, of course, but Dr. McCoy does better understand the nuances of human psychology, and it can't hurt to have another pair of eyes on the situation.

So Spock sits with Kirk, scrutinizing the captain's piled bowl of beef stir-fry and egg rolls while absently picking at his own plate – approximately 1 and ½ cups of steamed carrots and broccoli.

Helpfully, the captain brings attention to the issue on Spock's mind - in a roundabout fashion – by asking if he's heard any 'concerning talk' about the aftermath of their detour to Planet Q.

Naturally, the crew knows now that Karidian was Kodos the Executioner. Starfleet can't cover up an issue of that magnitude, and didn't really care to try – discovering Kodos was good PR, despite the tragedy of the event. But few people, even now, know about Kirk's personal involvement to the case.

That's not why Kirk is asking, though.

Kevin Riley's bout of hysteria during _Macbeth_ was... understandable, even by Spock's standards. But still problematic for the man's career.

Spock reminds Kirk that the crew does not tend to 'gossip' with him.

“But somehow, you always seem to know what happens around here,” Kirk says.

“...There is some speculation that Mr. Riley may be transferred. Or demoted.”

Kirk straightens, face falling into something more serious. “He's received a reprimand for ignoring orders. Under the circumstances, I don't intend to do anything more – that should be clear. Do you think he'll have issues with the crew?”

“Only self-imposed ones,” Spock replies. “Mr. Riley has been much more isolated than usual – entirely of his own design, I believe.”

“I'll have a talk with him.” Kirk frowns down at his plate. He prods a piece of chicken, scrutinizing it. “I wonder if it would be easier or harder, living through the famine as young as he was... Sometimes it seems like I can barely remember that year, and then something happens, and it's like I was on Tarsus yesterday. Like when I see spoiled food... I couldn't eat vegetables for a year afterward,” Kirk adds. “Half the food we scrounged up was old. Canned carrots and peas people hadn't wanted, and forgot about. You'd think I would have eaten anything I could get my hands on once I got home – but all I wanted was sweets and meat and cheese. The sorts of things that weren't included in the rations, even before the rations ended.”

“It is an understandable impulse,” Spock offers. Understandable, though excessively emotional. “

“And yet those instincts remain, after years and years of new experiences,” Kirk says. “ - Don't mind me, Spock. I suppose I'm just a little maudlin today. Odd to remember how much these fragile, physical bodies limit us...”

“Vulcan philosophy teaches that the body is only a conduit for the mind – that through will, we can control our responses to any stimuli.”

“That's all very nice in theory,” says Kirk. “But I have a feeling your philosophers weren't dying of hunger when they made that conclusion.”

Before Spock can respond, he's interrupted by a whistle from one of the hallway's communication panels. _“Sickbay to Mr. Spock,”_ a tinny voice demands.

Raising an eyebrow, Spock stands and heads over. Presses a button. “Spock here.”

_“You're needed in Sickbay, Commander. CMO's orders.”_

Raising an eyebrow, Spock presses another button to convey acknowledgment. He turns back. “Excuse me, Captain. We will have to resume this later.”

“Thank you, Spock.” The captain's eyes seem to follow him as he goes.

* * *

Spock used to run in Vulcan's Forge.

Students in ShiKahr were required to take classes on desert survival. With the wild mountains all around, and the planet's hottest, driest desert stretching beyond, it was a logical precaution. Among the most basic warnings was, _conserve your energy. Do not take risks. Do not make assumptions. Always assume you may be stranded._

It is best to carry plenty of water and food. Carry weapons. Walk, and take frequent breaks in the midday heat.

Spock started journeying the Forge regularly when he was twelve. And he ran, and he never carried water.

Sometimes it might have been hubris – if he was just going for a brief excursion, just an hour or two or four, the odds of injuring himself or becoming trapped were infinitesimal. But on other occasions he would run and run and run, until traitorous sweat ran from his human-ish pores, and only then would he use his survival knowledge to seek out a desert oasis or sticky cactus-water.

Once, when he was fifteen, he didn't find that oasis. Every plant he found was poison, and the sun started to burn his skin. Finally he was tired and dazed enough, when the sun rose to its height, to head toward the dangerous mountains.

He found a cave. Inside were two lematya.

They were huge – each twice his own weight, at least – and when Spock appeared at the cave's mouth they were lying together and resting. They just looked at him, and Spock looked back. There were cracked bones scattered in the cave, picked clean.

He entered the cave. Sat down. He meditated for hours until the heat abated, and the lematya dozed, ignoring him.

There was no conscious logic behind the decision. If asked – if anyone had _known_ to ask – he might have justified the choice. The lematya looked full and well-sated; it was midday, and they were tired; they would have been more likely to pursue if he had ran. But these would have been excuses. He did not run because he did not care, in the end, but by some strange turn of luck the lematya let him live anyway. He went home that day and Mother scolded him for being away so long. She told him he had missed dinner, and he went to his bed not feeling hungry despite the fact that he hadn't eaten in thirty-nine hours.

He never felt hungry.

He never felt anything.

* * *

Spock does not report to Sickbay, because before he can reach it he gets an urgent call from the bridge. The engines have stopped working.

That's usually not a good sign.


	2. Chapter 2

**III.**

* * *

McCoy still recalls his meeting with Dr. Piper shortly before the older doctor resigned as CMO. He'd updated McCoy on the ins and outs of the position, ranging from odd medical foibles among the crew to informal procedures the nurses now practiced, even sparing mention for the wonky microscopes in medical lab 2. It was only at the end of the meeting that Piper pulled out Commander Spock's file – a monstrosity that filled over four-thousand digital pages.

“So I'll just give you the highlights,” Piper said under McCoy's appalled stare.

Spock's health remains a bit of a mystery, even to the scientists who created him. S'chn T'gai Spock, his file claims, has a tendency toward high blood-pressure.... probably. Maybe. It could be perfectly healthy for him, but he was created in such a way that he should have Vulcan-standard pressure, so it's noted anyway.

His whole file reads like that. Spock's cells need more oxygen than a standard Vulcan, the file warns – except this has never been satisfactorily confirmed with study of cells at a microscopic level, and was mostly determined by various exercise-tests. The tendency also seemed to decline as he became older, so maybe he just had childhood asthma, except his lungs don't seem to indicate this. But they wouldn't, since his lungs are Vulcan and asthma is a human condition, so...

His lightweight bones are pocked with tiny holes and hollow spaces in a manner typical for humans, but his muscular structure follows Vulcan norms, meaning they're dense. It was predicted this would cause certain pains and aches, but Spock has never indicated discomfort – though perhaps he's just used to it. He's prone to migraines, which could indicate telepathy problems, brain injuries, poor circulation, allergies, or any number of things. Or maybe he's just easily anxious and the symptoms are psychosomatic. He drinks more water than the average Vulcan but once subsisted for ten days on less than a liter, at the age of seven, when undergoing some barbaric Vulcan rite of 'maturity' – so it's possible he just drinks more by habit, stemming from childhood emulation of his mother.

The file is a mess. It's all a mess, and McCoy still isn't hopeful that he can shed light on any of the thousands of questions presented there if dozens of attentive Vulcan researchers have failed to reach any substantive conclusions. It's a miracle the Commander is walking and talking, much less functional enough for duty. Man wasn't meant to go manufacturing life, in McCoy's opinion; but then he's just an old country doctor.

Despite Spock's general impossibility, McCoy has managed to develop a good sense of his health over the years. With Spock his medical diagnoses tend to lean toward educated guesswork, but he's gotten pretty good at hitting the mark. So it's silly for McCoy to pace around the exam room as he waits for Spock to arrive, still thumbing through Vulcan medical journals as though the information will change.

After comparing Spock's last dozen physicals, the replicator logs were only a confirmation of what McCoy already knows. He calls up to the bridge the next day and demands Spock's presence again. Jim is less amused this time. He says the ship is in 'crisis' and calls Spock's expertise 'invaluable.'

McCoy hasn't noticed any _crisis,_ except that the engine stalled a few hours back. As though Scotty doesn't manage that every-other month. Probably nothing.

Anyway Jim's going to give that Vulcan a big head, one of these days. McCoy would bet anything Spock is right there on the bridge listening in. Jim could at least have the decency to say all those flattering things where the man can't hear.

“Can't be that important if you're fine letting him get sick,” McCoy drawls. “You can send him down when he collapses, I guess.”

He ends the call. Spock appears in his office with alarming speed.

Huh. Maybe McCoy needs to be a bit more forceful with his usual requests.

“Have you discovered an issue with my physical results, Doctor?”

“Not exactly. Sit down.”

Spock does not. Hands folded behind his back, he announces, “Despite your typical disregard for this ship's functions, it should be apparent that I do not have the time to indulge in your displays of ego.”

“I didn't find anything wrong with your _physical._ That don't mean you're healthy.” McCoy slouches behind his desk, gesturing at the seat across from him. “Now sit. Down. And close the door first.”

Spock considers him with cool eyes. Then he closes the door and sits.

McCoy pulls up a padd to take notes. “Describe to me how it feels when you get hungry,” he says. “And the timeline you'd expect for symptoms to develop. Fatigue, dizziness, that sort of thing.”

“Why do you need such a description?”

“Just humor me.”

Spock eyes him like he suspects a trap. Which is fair; this whole conversation is a trap.

“...After refraining from food for roughly fifty hours, I would expect to start feeling somewhat tired and light-headed as blood pressure drops,” says Spock reasonably. “The sensation would worsen over time, and the stomach might start to feel tight.”

“And before fifty hours?”

“I would not consider myself hungry before that point.”

“Does it hurt? To be hungry.”

“There is some discomfort after roughly seventy hours.”

“But not before? Nothing just between meals?”

“I have not felt that sort of hunger since I was a teenager,” says Spock skeptically. “Caused by an accelerated rate of growth, no doubt.”

“Well, that's interesting,” says McCoy. He keeps his voice level despite the fact that a distant part of his mind is screeching _since he was a teenager!_ “Cuz, see, on a biological level humanoids only stop feeling hunger in that way when they're _starving._ Under a clinical definition of the word.”

Spock stiffens. Gotcha. “Perhaps humans differ from Vulcans - “

“They don't,” McCoy interrupts. “I checked. God, Spock, you must think all us humans are idiots, and you wouldn't be wrong. Looks like every damn doctor you've ever had somehow overlooked this.”

“What you imply is illogical,” comes the flat reply. Spock's face has closed away; he only uses that annoyingly crisp, blank tone when he's trying _suspiciously hard_ to avoid emoting. “Vulcans can regularly pass long periods of time without eating - “

“Though it would be expected that they'd make up the time,” McCoy says. “And hunger is _supposed_ to be uncomfortable, even with those fancy mental controls you have. I notice you didn't say that you'd have to switch off your brain's signals to avoid hunger. You don't even feel it anymore, do you?”

“I am perfectly healthy, Doctor. You have surmised as much yourself.”

“I was wrong. I can fess up to that much, Spock. Can you?”

“If you have nothing useful to say - “

“ _Spock._ As your doctor, we need to talk about a diet plan. And maybe counseling. This isn't healthy -”

Spock stands abruptly. “I will not stand here and be insulted.”

“It's not _insulting_ to be sick! And this isn't something you can just ignore. Long-term eating disorders - “ Spock actually flinches “can do serious, permanent damage to your brain. Not to mention the effects that sort of diet can have on your cardiovascular health - “

“If I have a legitimate health issue, I am perfectly willing to discuss it. Otherwise, Doctor, I believe there is no reason for my presence. And I am quite busy.”

This time, McCoy can't stop him from leaving. He scrubs his face and stares at the door.

Well. That could have gone better.

He calls Dr. M'Benga into his office next.

* * *

M'Benga spent his internship on Vulcan, and while he's a good doctor on his own merits, McCoy can be honest just with himself; that intership is literally the only reason he requested the man.

McCoy was damn near over the moon when M'Benga signed on. He only managed to wait a polite 48 hours before descending on the new doctor with an entire list of Vulcan-related questions, not all of which the man could actually answer.

Why does Spock usually stop drinking water when he's sick? When he melds with something, is it safe to interrupt? What's the deal with Vulcan hands? Why the _fuck_ does Spock feel the need to pace around the biobed a dozen times before sleeping? Is that a normal Vulcan thing or OCD, please. McCoy has no idea and god knows he won't be getting straight answers from Spock.

McCoy has the answers scribbled down in a file somewhere, a private reference he keeps out of Spock's official notes. He's never regretted the decision to take on M'Benga, and he hopes the man can help him today.

M'Benga arrives. He accepts a datapadd already queued up with side-by-side accountings of Spock's weight going back almost twenty years.

He looks tired and withdrawn within seconds. “Fuck,” he says, eloquent.

“Yeah,” McCoy sympathizes.

Privacy is always at a premium in the military, and even medical privacy can't be guaranteed. Still, Medical acknowledges that officers should be able to expect some amount of discretion; otherwise, no one would want to report problems at all. So Starfleet has three different categories for mental illness and different ways of responding to each.

The first category is for 'minor' impairments – things that should be addressed and occasionally assessed by a ship's counselor, but can also be kept private. More mild cases of bipolar disorder or seasonal affective disorder, anxiety, minor phobias, OCD, and so forth fall under this category. Issues in this first group are kept private; an officer's immediate superior doesn't need to know that their shiny new ensign is scared stiff of socializing off-duty or has an annoying physical tic when they're nervous. Trichotillomania is disturbing, but probably not something that requires constant oversight as long as an affected officer is taking therapy.

The third level is for mental illnesses that _do_ make a person dangerous to themselves or others, and might seriously impair a mission. A torture-victim who experiences violent flashbacks around machinery is not going to last on a starship. A pyromaniac is a threat to everyone. Someone with severe suicidal impulses needs to be monitored.

In this third-level, officers usually have to be removed from duty for at least a short time. If they're stable enough to return, superior officers will be fully briefed about the officer's difficulties so they can report any concerning behavior to Medical.

But there's also another category, in-between these extremes. Sometimes officers _do_ represent a threat to themselves – and sometimes, rarely, to others – but the likelihood of danger is low enough that they can continue working, and meanwhile Medical would prefer to preserve a patient's privacy. Many people, after all, only become even more stressed under scrutiny. So in these cases direct COs are only warned about mental issues in the vaguest possible terms – warned, so they can look out for unusual behavior, but not given enough details to be invasive.

Spock, McCoy decides with M'Benga, is in this more unusual category.

“Of course, that assumes he'll let us help him,” M'Benga comments as they discuss the plan. “The captain might be able to pressure him into cooperating, but if he's not informed of any specifics...

“Geoff, you're a genius,” says McCoy sincerely. The man gives him a puzzled look until he explains.

His plan meets reluctant approval. “It could work. I just – I'm sorry, Leonard. I've helped treat Vulcans for things like this. I can't believe I didn't notice.”

McCoy grunts. He can't say he isn't a _little_ irritated by that fact, but - “None of us did. Me, you, every damn doctor he's had before us... It's ridiculous. And I need to have a word with whoever's designing those computer programs back on Earth – our protocols are too human-centric.”

“Easier to blame someone else, I guess,” comes the dry reply.

It's a painfully accurate jibe. Given the chance, McCoy would prefer to sit down with a flask of bourbon and 'self-medicate' away the haunting knowledge that he's overlooked three years of suffering. Right under his damn nose.

What kind of doctor is he?

* * *

McCoy shoulders himself into the cramped crawlspace where Spock's inspecting some wall panel. Probably something to do with the ship's motionless status in space, which McCoy couldn't care less about. “You're going to start attending counseling sessions with M'Benga.”

“I am not,” says Spock, flat and muffled from his position lying on the ground. The science officer peers at something in the wall, not looking at him. “And I am busy, Doctor.”

“You're attending a counseling session with M'Benga,” McCoy repeats, pleasantly. “He's going to be your primary physician in this. And if you skip your appointments, I'll have to inform the _captain_ about your decision to neglect your health.”

Silence. McCoy takes this as the seething acquiescence it is, and makes his retreat.

It makes him feel a bit dirty, using Spock's sense of shame that way. The Vulcan would never want Jim to know these things – to realize that Spock's perfect Vulcan control has been faltering for years.

Maybe that's something Geoff can address in their sessions, too. God only hopes.

McCoy manages to catch lunch with Jim, who looks harried and informs him that the bizarre artificial satellite that seems to be pulling them in, slowly, via something like a tractor beam. _Very_ slowly, so McCoy's not too concerned. Scotty will figure out how to cancel the pull.

He bullies Kirk into eating some spinach with his meal. The captain's affronted scowl makes him feel much better.

* * *

Surprisingly, M'Benga seems cheerful after his first session with Spock. Even if his report isn't exactly reassuring.

He gives a few more details than McCoy honestly expected, explaining that Spock gave him permission to discuss the session as needed. It's not a forbearance McCoy expects to last – Spock is close-lipped at the best of times, and if M'Benga is going to get _anywhere_ important with these meetings, trust and confidentiality will be crucial.

But for now, M'Benga can readily say that Spock “isn't as severe as some patients I met on Vulcan.” Which is something, McCoy supposes. Though he also does mention that their first-officer seems to be suffering from an hefty dose of denial, with a fun side of self-delusion.

“You see that pretty often in Vulcans, especially from those northern traditional families,” M'Benga says. McCoy has absolutely no idea what parts of Vulcan would be considered 'northern.' Or, in fact, which part of Vulcan Spock is even from. “It's part of a teaching method in certain disciplines... convincing your brain to follow a logical train of thought even if your emotions say otherwise. Except some people go a bit too far, and start convincing themselves of things that they _want_ to be true, even despite heaps of evidence to the contrary.” A beat. “It's considered a pretty bad way of approaching their philosophical disciplines, but I don't think mentioning that would help Spock at the moment.”

“No,” McCoy agrees, trying to imagine Spock's reaction to a human offering to teach him about logic. “Probably not. Does he seem willing to work with you?”

“Very grudgingly. He never disputed that he's ill, but just kept trying to insist there's no 'serious problem' and it doesn't affect his duties... I'm going to need to brush up on my rhetoric skills for this. He did recognize that he's not eating enough. At a guess, though, it might actually be best to treat this like orthorexia.”

McCoy squints.

And, nope. “Not familiar with that,” he admits.

“It's fairly common on Vulcan,” M'Benga tells him. “As much as any addiction is common, I mean. Mainstream anorexia is an obsession with – cutting out foods, starving, exercising... there's a focus on deliberately pushing the body. With orthorexia, that's usually a bit more of an unintended side-effect. People get obsessed with the _quality_ of what they're eating. On Earth it usually manifests in those people who get their heads stuck in 20th century science, you know – at first their food just needs to be healthy. Then they turn into those people who want to eat locally Earth-grown, all-natural, gluten-free, non-altered foodstuffs... eventually they start running down a rabbit hole until all their food has to be 'pure.' And if they can't get perfect food, they have panic attacks, or starve themselves...”

“And on Vulcan?” McCoy asks, because he can definitely see Vulcans getting nitpicky over the little details, but it's hard to imagine them engaging in bogus pseudo-science.

“Vulcans displaying orthorexia actually tend to get wrapped up in ethics. Where was the food grown, how were the workers treated, is it really acceptable to eat anything if people are starving on the other side of the world... but honestly, none of it's very 'logical' or rational in the end. When they start getting _really_ obsessive, they might decide food is only edible if it's produced in accordance with old religious principles no one even follows, on a family-grown farm that donates half it's proceeds toward preserving the world's deserts, owned by a particularly moral person and eaten only after three hours of meditation... which all would be fine, I guess, if it didn't mean starving themselves out of some misguided idea of what constitutes a 'correct' meal.”

“I really don't see how that applies to Spock.”

“Well it's not a typical presentation. And he _does_ cut out a lot of calories, which is more like standard anorexia. But I think he has his own set of ethics. Yesterday I tried to stick some dairy into the diet-plan we were making, and he told me he can't eat dairy. Because Vulcans are lactose intolerant.”

“Spock isn't though.”

“No,” says M'Benga meaningfully. “He isn't. But he can't eat dairy. Because _Vulcans are lactose intolerant.”_

“...Ah.” McCoy thinks about that. “It can't be as easy as giving him Vulcan foods, though. The replicators don't have a lot of variety, but there are some Vulcan options.”

“No – it's a complex case. I mean, he's clearly had this problem for years. But I think the biggest issue is that Vulcans have more efficient digestive systems – they don't need huge quantities of plants or grains to get a lot of energy. He's trying to force himself to keep a Vulcan-appropriate diet, and that just doesn't work for him. So at this point, he's clearly accustomed to depriving himself on a regular basis... maybe even using food as a punishment. He's too underweight to be completely oblivious to what he was doing.”

McCoy grimaces. It's true, but he doesn't want to think of the implications – the fact that Spock's been deliberately hiding this, deliberately suffering for years. “God. What a mess. Do you really feel capable of handling this, Geoff? Not to say I don't trust your judgment, but – a Vulcan therapist - “

“I'll manage, Leonard. You have to understand - Vulcans don't really do 'therapy' like we do,” M'Benga says. “And frankly I always found their treatments for compulsive disorders fairly ineffective. In fact, the coping techniques they teach tend to just _divert_ patient obsessions. At least Commander Spock has managed to cope with the orthorexia - or anorexia, or whatever. We don't need him turning to self-harm or something instead.”

McCoy feels a shiver crawl down his spine.

He's trying to view this case clinically. He _needs_ to view it clinically, because he can't quite reconcile any of it – eating disorders, mental illness – with his image of the ship's composed, self-assured first officer.

But he has to remember that this sort of issue is rooted. There's never an easy fix. And if they approach this the wrong way, it could be easy for someone with a complex mental disorder to spiral down even darker paths.

McCoy takes a slow breath. “Let's take another look at that diet plan you had in mind...”

* * *

**II.**

“Any news, Spock?”

Spock shakes his head, the motion blurring the screen readout for a moment. His temples pulse in tandem with his heartbeat; his chest feels hollow with fatigue. “Nothing useful, Captain. Gravity draw from the object continues to increase; I estimate we have approximately 132 hours before escape becomes impossible, and 171 hours until collision.”

“No update from Scotty?”

“He has identified an unidentified form of radiation emanating from the device. We are still investigating, Sir.”

“Well, investigate faster,” Kirk snaps. Spock is unfazed; the captain often gets a bit irritable when his crew is on the line. “And keep me updated.”

Spock does both things, of course. But in truth there's very little to report. Each avenue of research into the mysterious satellite's magnetic pulls proves fruitless. This is, in its own right, quite fascinating – but not particularly helpful.

The _Enterprise's_ most recent subject of study turned out to be a clearly artificially-created planetary satellite perhaps one-sixteenth the size of Earth's moon. Based on preliminary readings, the survey ship who discovered it thought the structure might be an abandoned space station of some kind. But the reports from that ship abruptly stopped, and the _Enterprise_ was sent to investigate.

They have not officially discovered the fate of the _USS Majesty's_ crew – though under current circumstances, it's not difficult to theorize. Upon approaching the satellite's planet the _Enterprise's_ warp engines ceased all functions; they are only operating on impulse, which is entirely insufficient to fight the satellite's gentle tractor beam. The satellite drags the ship slowly but inexorably onward.

Right now they're set on a slow collision course. Or the satellite might have some other purpose in mind; but Spock certainly intends to have the ship freed before they can discover it.

It's a tense situation. But at least Spock has a good excuse to avoid Sickbay.

Just the memory of the uncomfortable session with M'Benga makes his skin flush. Ideally, he would like to be spending more time in meditation. An uncomfortable vibration tickles his lungs, the back of his throat. A brief, anxious purr ripples under his skin. He quells the sound before anyone can notice. Vestigial emotional reactions are unnecessary for a Vulcan; he will control himself.

M'Benga told him that he's worked with other Vulcans with _cognitive disorders,_ which is a very polite way of saying _mental illness,_ which is just a euphemism for poor control of the body and mind.

Not that these things apply to Spock, anyway. He supposes he can't fault McCoy or M'Benga for misunderstanding the situation and trying to label him as ill – humans often try to make alien species fit into their own perceptions, and this is just an example of that. It's true that Spock weighs significantly less than he did a few years ago, but he's always lost weight easily. His physicals would have revealed a problem earlier if this were a serious issue. There's no reason for the CMO to decide, _now,_ that he is in crisis.

His head throbs with the beginnings of a migraine – as if his research today won't be unpleasant enough.

* * *

Hierarchy on the _Enterprise_ can be a tricky thing.

On the books, of course, it all seems very simple. But the way people organize and relate to each other sometimes has little to do with regulation.

Mr. Scott, as Chief Engineer, is very technically under the purview of the greater Science department, as is Medical. For practical purposes Scott and McCoy only need Spock to co-sign on a small number of items – like major requisitions – and he's sometimes asked to mediate issues. For day-to-day functions he leaves these departments alone.

Mr. Scott is technically second-officer, and Dr. McCoy third – but in reality both are more likely to hand over command to Mr. Sulu or Ms. Uhura, depending on the situation that might leave them on the bridge.

Neither of their skillsets lay with command. Mr. Scott, in Spock's experience, is a very excellent engineer, if an unorthodox one. He's also utterly manic when his engines are concerned, and can easily develop a blindspot toward anything else.

“Are you certain that we cannot end this issue by entering warp, Mr. Scott?” Spock interrupts a rambling diatribe about strange and malevolent regions of space.

“We'd be lucky not to blow half the ship's circuits,” Scott protests.

“That is not an answer.” Spock ignores the indignant sputtering this provokes. “Please clarify; is it _possible_ to break from the tractor beam by force?”

Scotty scowls at him, shifting from foot to foot as he considers this. “...No, Sir, we don't want to be trying that. Maybe, _maybe_ we'd be able to escape – and that's a 1-in-a-hundred 'maybe' – but we more likely we'd just be stuck without any working engines at all, and even if we get away, we just don't have enough information! For all we know that satellite can pull us in from another lightyear off – we need to _stop_ the signal at its source, that's all.”

'That's all,' indeed. “Thank you. And what is your progress in that direction?”

Scotty glares. Spock stifles a sigh, ignoring the bursts of static flittering over a vision.

It's a long shift.

As usual, Spock is relieved halfway through to take a meal. Unfortunately Kirk takes his meal at the same time, meaning Spock can't simply haunt the science labs as he usually does for his 'break.' Twenty minutes later finds Spock ignoring the vegetarian sandwich on his plate while Kirk talks about McCoy's odd behavior.

“It feels like he's almost hoping that I'll come crying about some trauma related to Kodos,” the man complains, biting aggressively into a ham sandwich. Ham is a particularly pungent meat; Spock resists the urge to grimace. “As though I didn't get enough therapy as a kid. And I haven't lost efficiency, have I?”

“You have displayed no abnormal behavior recently,” is Spock's dutiful confirmation. “ - Ignoring the sort of behavior that _humans_ would consider normal.”

“Thank you,” says Kirk with great dignity. “I think. Anyway, I'm not sure what to do with him. Bones is the sort of person who just doubles down when you try to argue.”

“I have never known you to give up a confrontation merely because it seems unlikely,” Spock observes.

Kirk bristles as though he's being taunted (which he is). “We have bigger issues at the moment,” he points out. “I don't want to start a fight. Especially when Bones is being all secretive about... _whatever_ he's doing down in Medical.”

'Whatever,' indeed. Spock recalls that his own perceived issues came to light during Dr. McCoy's off-schedule physical.

He also finds himself wondering what, precisely, the doctor has been doing.

* * *

Dr. M'Benga sends Spock a message to schedule another session; he ignores it.

At their present rate of movement, The Enterprise has eleven days before it collides with the strange planetary satellite. Ideally, Spock and Mr. Scott will figure a way to free the ship before then. Kirk is also making preparations to beam over a survey team, though this is a risky maneuver when they have no idea whether the construct is uninhabited. All hails have thus far proven fruitless.

Spock's first shift is an exercise is futility. By his usual lunch-break he's discovered nothing of use, and at Kirk's gentle reminder to rest he ends up grudgingly taking a bowl of Vulcan vegetable-broth from the synthesizers. It's a common side-dish where he used to live, and favored by temple monks during fasts.

As Spock sips his broth, a group of crewmen sit at a nearby table. He notes that one woman, incongruously, brings a heaping stack of pancakes covered with cinnamon-apples. Someone makes a teasing comment and she justifies, “Hey, time is meaningless in space! It's breakfast somewhere!”

A fair point, actually. Spock recognizes her and recalls she usually works the 'night' shift in engineering.

His broth tastes like salt and vaguely-bitter herbs. By the time he finishes a few plants bits have congealed into an unappetizing lump at the bottom, which he leaves untouched. Spock is distracted; he should be contemplating the ship's emergency situation, but instead he's thinking about Vulcan. Specifically, his parents.

Until the age of ten, Spock was required to eat most meals with at least one parent, or – when they were both busy – another adult member of the clan. He's still not sure why, but suspects the reason has something to do with the first few years of his life, when Spock seemed to have unpleasant physical reactions to either Vulcan or human cuisine near-constantly. Even today, his stomach twists with cramps if he eats too many earth-legumes, or nuts, or starches. Or Vulcan grains. Or -

Anyway.

His mother made pancakes for him once. For wide swathes of Spock's childhood she often acted like she was born Vulcan, too – even if she made a pale, oddly-proportioned Vulcan too prone to fainting under the sun. She rarely showed emotion, especially in public. Her flawless use of the language always came out cool and measured, and she spoke of logic, logic, logic.

But sometimes on a whim – especially when they were alone – she'd drop this cool exterior like it didn't matter, like it was a coat she assumed, rather than an integral piece of her personality. As a child Spock had vaguely envied that; he didn't understand how one could _know_ logic, and yet still avoid the compulsion to follow it.

There was one morning, when Spock was seven, that his usual classes were canceled; a sehlat in heat had broken into his year's study area, and the whole school was surrounded in aggravated males. Professionals were called in to attend the matter, and Spock studied at the counter instead.

Amanda used the opportunity to make him an earth-native dish for breakfast. She called it _pancakes,_ and lamented her lack of 'syrup' – as though the cakes needed more sweetening. Under Sarek's affronted stare she instead portioned out preserved fruits on top.

Sarek asked if these pancakes were part of some important cultural tradition, or holiday. Amanda said they were not.

“Then it seems unwise to encourage such poor eating habits,” Sarek pointed out as Spock took a bite. It was sweet, sweet – almost, but not quite, too sweet for his desert-bred palate. The fruits at least were Vulcan, and familiar.

He liked it. But he paused with his knife poised over the platter, simply prodding the fruits as he listened.

“It's a common breakfast on Earth,” Amanda justified.

“Which does not surprise me,” Sarek retorted, “As humans often find it acceptable to poison their bodies with unnecessary, wasteful calories and fats – not to speak of actual poisons.”

Amanda looked up at the ceiling. “I didn't give him _vodka,_ dear,” she'd sighed at her husband.

Spock broke the gentle argument by declaring the cakes too sweet and opting to eat _kreyla_. His mother sighed and ate the 'pancakes' herself, which Sarek didn't seem to mind.

Everything in Spock's childhood went the same way. He was Vulcan, Vulcan, Vulcan. And therefore it was appropriate for him to be raised Vulcan, treated Vulcan. Even by his mother, in the end, who only broke out bits of divergent thinking when she felt a whimsical mood for it. He recalls that she did not try to make pancakes again.

Spock finishes the broth. It sloshes emptily in his stomach when he disposes of the bowl; for some reason he feels another anxious, self-consoling purr tremble against the back of his throat.

Illogical. Returning on the bridge, Spock receives another message from M'Benga on his personal padd.

He hits 'delete' without bothering to read it.


End file.
